


Wassail

by sheldrake



Category: BBC Historical Farm TV RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Christmas, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2836136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheldrake/pseuds/sheldrake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man from the Ministry is here, and he wants to speak to Alex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wassail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marginaliana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/gifts).



> Dear Yuletider - this is not your main story, just a little extra treat. Hope you enjoy it!

The man from the Ministry comes with an armed guard. And, of course, they have petrol. Their vehicles, armour-plated like so many black beetles, roar into the yard in a convoy and frighten the hens.

It’s been so long since any of them heard a car, or indeed any kind of engine, that the penny fails to drop straight away. Ruth thinks, _thunder_ , and then _no. Not thunder_. She wipes her hands on a cloth and hastily swaps her indoor shoes for yard boots, fumbling as she pulls them on. Outside, curious faces are peering from behind doors -- the barn and the cowshed -- drawn by the unfamiliar noise. Ruth resolutely doesn’t look at their disused machinery shed, full of dead tractors, useless engines, and also a small group of people who are most definitely not supposed to be there. But she’s sure the doors are shut. They will have heard the cars arriving, she tells herself. They’re not stupid.

“Can I help you?” she says, and steps forward. She hears her own voice cut cleanly into the cold air.

The man from the Ministry doesn’t answer, but his eyes flick over her disdainfully. He’s tall, angular, with a slick of dark hair. He’s flanked by two lackeys, both shorter than he is. All of them are wearing bullet-proof vests.

“We’re looking for a Mr A. Langlands,” says one of the lackeys. He’s bulky under his uniform, his face colourless. He has small pale blue eyes. “Can you tell us where we might find him?”

“We run this farm as a co-operative,” she says. “Anything you want to ask Alex, you’re very welcome to ask me.”

Again she’s amazed at the sound of her own voice, how smooth and confident it is. All the time, it’s as though there’s an invisible thread running from the back of her brain to the machinery shed. She doesn’t turn round. It’s all she wants to do. Her mind is like a hive of bees: what do they want? Why do they always ask for Alex? Where is Alex? How long can she stall them? If they don’t find him, will they decide to search the place? How the hell can she get them away from the bloody machinery shed?

“We are authorised to speak only to Mr Langlands,” says the other lackey. “Is he here, or not?”

“Oh, he won’t be long,” she says. “Look, why don’t you come inside, have a cup of tea? Get out of this cold.” She smiles and gestures toward the farmhouse, the top half of the stable door still standing open. “It’s no trouble!”

She sees the three men look at one another, silently communicating something. She’s so tense now, she thinks she might snap. 

“If Mr Langlands is not on the farm--” begins the first lackey, and then she almost collapses in relief as she sees Alex come round the side of the cowshed. He looks slightly out of breath. He must have heard the engines, wherever he was, and come running.

“I'm Alex Langlands.” He steps forward across the yard, hand outstretched, and nods to her, very slightly, as he does so. She watches as the attention of the three men flicks automatically to him. “What can I do for you?”

She goes back into the house. They’ve forgotten her already, and she’s not sure if it’s because she’s a woman, or because it’s not her name on their bit of paper. Probably a bit of both. Either way, she’s not going to waste time worrying about it. She collapses on a chair next to the Aga, weak with relief. She’s sure she can rely on Alex to lead them away from the danger spot. Then she starts to worry again. What do they want with him? It’s probably just quotas again. It normally is. And yet… She wishes Peter were here, but he’s in the village, and won’t be back for an hour or more.

She stands up quickly to stop her train of thought, and goes over to the dirty dishes she abandoned in the sink earlier. There’s no point giving in to all this stuff -- you’d go mad. Activity is the answer, and you can always be busy. It’s not as though she’s ever been short of things to do.

After a while, she hears the sound of the cars driving off again, down the lane. Alex does not come back, so she has to assume he’s gone with them. She waits a long time, listening, before she crosses the yard with a covered basket, and knocks softly on the wide machinery shed doors.

“It’s only me,” she says, in a low voice. “They’ve gone. I’ve brought sandwiches, if any of you lot are hungry.”

***

It’s late by the time Alex comes back. The others who work here have all gone home to bed, and Ruth and Peter wait alone in the farmhouse kitchen, playing a half-hearted game of cards by the dim light of the oil lamps. Neither of them managed much dinner, not even Peter, and in the end Ruth scraped up the remains and put them in a covered dish in the larder. “We’ll have it for breakfast,” she said absently, “or the hens will.”

“It’s your turn,” she says now. “Are you going to play a card tonight, or…?”

Peter scratches his head. “Dunno,” he says. “I’ve got an ace, a two, and a three, is that good?”

She looks at him.

“What were we playing again?” he asks.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” She begins to laugh, and then there is a rattling at the latch, and they both shoot up out of their seats, the game forgotten.

“It’s ok, it’s me,” Alex calls. They get in each other’s way trying to get the bolts drawn back. Peter grins, and feels a tension leave him that he hadn’t been consciously aware of.

“Is there anything to eat?” Alex asks. He brings the December cold into the room with him, shedding gloves and scarf as he goes, and his nose and cheeks are flushed pink. “I’m starving.”

“What was it this time?” Ruth asks after he’s eaten, and they're sitting at the kitchen table, reluctant to leave the little pool of light and warmth. “Quotas?”

“Yeah.” He sighs and stretches his long limbs. He looks exhausted, Peter thinks. “Same old, same old. Drove me around in the dark, vague threats. Get the yield up next year, or we’ll seriously consider your position -- you understand what we’re saying, Mr Langlands? And so on.”

Imagining it just makes Peter angry, so he stops. He wishes it weren’t always Alex getting this, but they only ever seem to be interested in Alex. He hates it all so much.

Ruth snorts. “Oh yes, all very well. It’d be nice if they had any idea of what they were talking about.”

“Mm.” Alex rubs the back of his head, looks down at the table.

“Well. We’ll work something out,” Peter says. “At least they haven’t started poking around here where they’re not wanted. If you know what I mean.”

“Not yet,” Alex says. He looks up at Ruth. “Are they all right?”

She nods. “They’re smart kids. They know what to do. Get down, hide. Wait for that horrible lot to leave. Great thing about the powers that be, you can always hear them coming.”

They sit in silence for a few moments.

“God,” Alex says. “Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? They’d be completely screwed. _We’d_ be completely screwed.”

“And that,” Peter says, standing up, “is why you should never think. In fact, I’ve discovered a cure for it.”

He goes over to a cupboard in the corner where Ruth keeps the clean tea-towels, reaches into the back of it, and draws out a bottle.

“How long has that been in there?” Ruth exclaims. “I know everything in this kitchen! Did you put that in there? And where did you get it?”

He taps the side of his nose, smirking, and sets it in the middle of the table, along with three glasses. “Oh, I have my ways.”

They regard it with reverence. An old bottle of Bell’s whisky, barely a quarter full. It’s beautiful. Alex is smiling. Peter catches his eye, and thinks he can’t remember the last time he saw him this happy. He smiles back.

Peter does the honours, and then raises his glass. “Lady and gentleman,” he says. “Your health.” It’s like drinking fire. 

“Oh, wow,” Ruth says.

“Jesus.” Alex tips his head back. “I’d completely forgotten.”

Peter nods. “Mm. Goes down all right, that. Anyone for another?”

“Is there enough?” Ruth asks.

“Just about.”

He pours another round, and then they look sadly at the tiny dribble left in the bottle. It’s not enough to divide into three.

“We could play cards for it?” Ruth suggests, and he smiles. 

“No,” he says. “I’ve got another idea.”

***

“This is ridiculous, you know that, Peter?” Alex says. “It’s not even the right day, you’re supposed to do it on Twelfth Night. Oh, fuck.” He finds he’s stumbled on a clump of grass and fallen clumsily into Peter’s side.

“Steady.” Peter holds onto his arm and rights him again. “Can’t believe you’re drunk on two whiskies, Alex, complete lightweight.”

“Oh, course I’m not. But look, my objection stands. When is Twelfth Night, anyway?”

“Today’s Christmas Eve,” calls Ruth from in front of them. “Work it out!”

Alex stops without thinking, and Peter curses as he walks into him again.

“Is it Christmas Eve already?” He can’t believe it. It makes him realise just how thoroughly he’s lost track of time.

“Yep.” Peter puts a hand on his back and gently nudges him forward again. Ruth is the one with the lantern, and she’s too far ahead now for it to help them much. Luckily the moon is full tonight. “Hope you’ve got all your present shopping done.”

“Ha ha, you’re very amusing. What’ve you got me?”

“Um, a flat-screen telly. Thought you could dry your clothes on it. You?”

“Oh, I bought you a new phone,” Alex says. “Doesn’t do much these days, but it’ll make a lovely paperweight.”

The path they’re following is a holloway -- a deep sunken lane trodden into the ground over the course of centuries by cattle-drovers. Alex thinks about all the feet that have walked here, in the past. The sides of the lane rise up on either side of them, and then the trees grow even higher, to form walls and a canopy. It feels safe here, somehow, even in the dark. Like being sheltered in the burrow of some animal or other.

At the end of the lane, and across a narrow road, is their field of winter wheat. The three of them crowd closer together, making their way in among the young growth, furred white with frost. The ground is hard under their feet, and their breath shows white when they speak.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Alex murmurs. He clutches the almost-empty bottle in both hands like a talisman.

“Ok,” Peter says. “Now what? Do we just pour it out?”

“Isn’t this usually apples?” Ruth says. “I only know the apple words.”

“Same principle,” Peter says. “Cider to make the apples grow, whisky for grain. Worth a go, don’t you reckon?”

“Yeah… anyway, they don’t want apples up at the Ministry,” Alex observes. Anger bubbles up as he speaks. “They want this. And they’d like more of it, if we don’t mind.”

“Right then,” Peter says. “That’s what they’ll get. Come on, we’ll make something up.”

Alex holds the bottle out in front of him, and Ruth reaches over to touch it. “We should do it together,” she says. The lantern lights her from below, giving her the look of a friendly Halloween mask. 

“All right,” he says. “Together.” He takes Peter’s hand and puts it on the bottle too, under his own. “On the count of three.”

The last golden drops of the whisky fall from the bottle’s neck and into the darkness, onto the frozen earth below.

“Lady and gentleman and wheat,” says Peter. “Your health.”

On the way back to the farmhouse, they lag behind Ruth again, her little light bobbing ahead like a will-o’-the-wisp. “Get a move on!” she calls. “It’s bloody freezing out here.”

Around them, small nocturnal creatures rustle in the undergrowth. Alex thinks how the familiar countryside smells different and strange at night. It’s as though he can feel the the strong green sap of the hedgerow like a presence, something that breathes on its own. The land is alive in so many ways. 

“I worry about all this, you know?” he says to Peter. “I mean, I worry about us a lot. I worry about those guys we’re hiding in the shed. But I worry about this, too. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Watch out, there’s a root here.” He reaches behind him and puts a guiding hand on Alex’s arm. A distant owl hoots.

“There he is.”

“What?”

“My owl,” Peter says. “I keep on hearing him. Assuming it’s the same one. I’ve called him Monty.”

Alex stops walking again.

“What is it now?” Peter stops too. “We’re never going to get home at this rate.”

“I dunno.” He shrugs pointlessly into the dark. “Just… whatever, happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, Alex.” 

Peter retraces his steps on the path and pulls him into a tight hug. “Jesus,” he says, coming into contact with the bare skin of Alex’s face and neck. “You’re made of ice! Come here.” He rubs Alex’s back as though he’s a half-dead lamb, and says, “It’s all going to be ok, you know?”

“Is it?”

“I think so. I do. But… today was bad. You all right?”

“I’m fine,” Alex says automatically. “No, no… No, I’m not.” He pulls back a little, sighs. Because he can’t help it, he puts his hands in Peter’s hair, winding the the long untidy curls around his fingers. He doesn’t react.

“No?” Peter’s eyes are fixed on him. 

“No. It’s not enough.” The words come out half under his breath, and he doesn’t even know what they mean. “I want…” 

They are kissing then, and it feels warm and right, as though they’ve been at this for years. Peter’s hands are steady and firm on his back. When Alex opens his eyes a little later he sees that Peter’s face and hair are silvered by the moonlight, and that he’s just standing still, waiting. Alex thinks perhaps Peter has been doing that for a long time now.

“What?” Peter asks.

Alex smiles, and feels sad and silly. “I thought… I wanted to get you something nice for Christmas. I’m an idiot.” 

“You are an idiot.” Peter turns and steps forward again onto the path. He looks back over his shoulder, reaching out his hand for Alex’s. 

“Tell you what,” he says, as they make their slow way back. “In the spirit of the season, I’ll let you share my owl.”

Ahead of them, Ruth’s lantern moves steadily onward, a little piece of fire in the dark.


End file.
